Turn of Events
by jolnnlock
Summary: First Meeting AU in which Sherlock hunts a phone number for a bet. Sounds familiar? It's not.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, I swear, if I hear another word about this god damned Newman case, I'll ban you from crime scenes for a month!" Lestrade hissed in an enervated manner.

The man in question knew better than to risk his luck when the Detective Inspector was in one of those moods. So instead he shut his mouth, but not without voicing his complaint with a groan.

Lestrade scowled at him suspiciously, but appeared to be pacified.

Sherlock sighed and let his eyes roam over the crowded room. Laughter, chatter and the dull attempts to persuade the other gender to sexual intercourse was filling the air and he was bored out of his skull. He didn't even know what he was supposed to do by 'having a drink with the involved parties'. Another sigh, even more pitiful than the first, escaped his throat and he slumped a bit deeper in his seat.

"Listen, I know I might have pushed you to come with us for once, and I believe this was a mistake, but you know you're free to go. You don't have to be here!" Lestrade sloshed a bit of his beer when he opened his arms wide to underline his attitude.

Sherlock watched him sceptically. "I just don't see the point in mindless chatter," he muttered, crossing his arms before his chest.

Lestrade watched him, lost in thought. Sherlock let him for a few moments, tapping his fingers against his thigh, before he gave in and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Whatever you're thinking about, just say it, because I can almost hear it anyway!"

Lestrade chuckled lightly. "Well, if you don't like mindless chatter, maybe I could interest you in a... bet? Give the chatter a reason?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, then groaned again. "Alright, go on, what's in it for me?"

The answering smile he got in response couldn't be described as anything but smug. "I offer you: one week unadulterated access to cold case files. Every. Single. One." Lestrade watched with amusement as Sherlock sat up in his chair. "And all you have to do is to get the phone number of that little darling." He pointed vaguely in the direction of the bar, where a mid- to late-thirties man was lounging on his chair. To his left sat a twenty-something woman who was obviously trying to make her boyfriend jealous, by flirting with anyone wearing trousers. The seat to his right was empty, although he almost occupied it by clinging to the counter, nearly falling off of his stool. "If you don't get it, then you will cope. With the entire team. No insults, no complaints. For... a month," he continued.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Lestrade cut in with a "Yes, even Anderson," so he shut it again and considered this for a moment. Glancing over to the man again, a pint glass in front of him, he noticed a light stain on his shirt, probably whisky. No. He narrowed his eyes at the orange peel next to the napkin. Gold Tequila. Either way mostly drunk. He suppressed a grin. _Child's play._ "But why would I wanted the phone number, I don't want to call anyone," he said instead.

Lestrade leaned forward "Well, maybe _you_ won't, but maybe _I_ do..." he trailed off, and Sherlock sent him another eyeroll.

"But, why...? I mean, your wife?" So Lestrade was bi-sexual? Sherlock would never admit it, but this perception of the DI surprised him.

"Oh Sherlock, I thought you knew that my wife cheated on me! Thinking about it, _you_ were the one who told me... Well anyway, sometimes one needs a bit … _comfort_."

Sherlock scoffed at him. "Wouldn't people expect that the person getting the number will also be the one calling?"

"Expecting, yes. Perhaps they'd feel lucky, if someone like me would call rather than someone like... well, _you_." He weighed his head. "Probably"

Sherlock blinked at him and then glanced over to the man again. "Make it a month free access and I'm in," he grinned and Lestrade snorted.

"Go on then, but don't forget: You need the phone number to win." They shook hands.

Sherlock nodded confidently, target already at aim.

Sally, who had been following the conversation with unease, watched him as he walked over to the bar. "Do you think that's a good idea?" she asked doubtfully.

Lestrade raised his pint in a toast. "I think it's a marvellous idea!"

* * *

"If I may?"

He snatched out of his drowsy state into reality to find a dark curled man actually talking to him. A slight smile on his lips and a graceful hand resting on the barstool next to him.

"Oh, hi, sorry," John said numbly. He was nearly asleep on his chair at the bar, due to the amount of alcohol running through his veins. He sat up straight-ish to give the man more room to sit down, which he promptly did.

John rubbed his hands over his face and glanced at his watch, then sighed pitifully. He patted his jacket, until he found his mobile-phone in his jeans. It came to gleaming life when he scrolled through his contacts until his thumb hovered over Harry's number. He blinked a few times, before snorting disdainfully. Did he really consider calling _Harry_ to take him home?

"I'm Sherlock," the man beside him said, extending a hand to him.

John looked up into pale grey eyes, which were now fixed on him. "John," he replied, gaining the strength to actually exchange a handshake.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the phone with which John was twiddling unknowingly in his other hand. "So... bad day at the surgery?" he asked eventually.

John startled. "Sorry?"

"You're a doctor. Probably came straight to this bar when you left surgery about I'd say 3 hours ago. You dove right in with a double tequila. The gold one, I suppose. You don't drink on a regular basis, probably because your brother appears to be an alcoholic and you get a bad conscience whenever you have more than two drinks, which is rather ludicrous since you're perfectly in control of your desire for alcohol. Today, however, you drank more than you usually allow yourself to."

Sherlock examined the half-empty pint on the bar desk. "So much even, that you don't feel able to go home on your own. But you also don't want to call your brother for help because you think it would be worse to have him at a bar at night than to take a taxi and leave alone. So you came here most likely because something happened at your job today which you wanted to ease away a bit by consuming alcohol," he ended with a calculated smile, taking a sip of the drink the bartender had set in front of him.

John blinked at him in wild confusion. "Sorry, how did you...?" he enquired eventually, but was interrupted by someone behind them clearing his throat pointedly. They both looked up to the tall, grey haired man standing there.

"Sherlock. I think -"

"Ah, Lestrade! John, may I introduce Detective Inspector Lestrade, old friend." They nodded at each other, confusion still lurking in John's eyes.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you. You -"

"No no, Lestrade. It's all right. I can and I will do this. Now go back to Sergeant Donovan and the others, who seem to have lots of fun." With this he waved him away, choking every other word, until the DI sighed in an exasperated manner and left them alone.

John watched him as he made his way back through the maze of tables and people.

Sherlock sighed. "Okay, you've got questions..."

"Yeah. Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

John pursed his lips. "I don't know. Fortune cookie?"

This statement gained him an amused smile. "I'm a consulting detective. Meaning when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"But," John began with a frown, "the police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow at him. "When I said you were a doctor, you looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I noticed. Your hunched sitting position; the way you unconsciously keep rubbing your hands over your face or pinch your eyes closed, as well as the bags under them are clear indicators of an unhealthy sleeping habit. You've been suffering from insomnia for quite a while now, so you decided to take on night shifts to disburden your colleagues. But I suspect you don't just do it because you're insufferably generous -one could always do with the money. I'm not quite certain about the reason yet, to be honest, but who's not in the need of money nowadays. Although your clothes don't look like you waste a lot of money on them, they're quite worn. Also your phone, though it's a relatively new model you didn't buy it yourself. It's merely your brother's abandoned mobile he gave to you to keep in touch. And your haircut: short, practical, cheap -"

"Yes, yes all right," John interrupted him fiercely. "I got it. But how did you jump from... _that_ to the conclusion that I'm a doctor? Those vague little facts could apply to..." he searched his blank mind for an appropriate number and finally settled on "70 per cent of the population!"

Sherlock's lips curled into yet another amused half-smile; he'd probably aimed a bit too high. "Well, your hands smell of antiseptic and I have to admit, the medical bag at your feet was a bit of a giveaway."

John blinked gobsmacked, then tilted his head back to let out a blithe laugh. "You cheated!" he exclaimed eventually.

Sherlock shook his head, still grinning. "I never said I notice out of thin air!"

They both giggled and John wanted to blame the alcohol for most of it. Finally he took a few calming breaths and turned to look at Sherlock. "But seriously... how did you know about the drinking?"

The detective grinned smugly. "Oh, merely a shot in the dark really, good one though. Give me your phone." He held out a hand and John placed it in his palm. "I saw tiny little scratches flashing up when you were twiddling with it before. Those marks," he said, indicating small scuff marks around the power connection. "You'll never find those on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them, every night he plugs it in to charge but his hands are shaking. Apart from that and considering the engraving; the act of giving his mobile to you in the first place tells us much about the state of his marriage, which could've been another factor as to why you don't approve, and don't want to rely on him in your actual state."

Again John stared speechlessly at Sherlock, watching as he took another sip of his drink. He inhaled deeply "That... was amazing."

Sherlock froze briefly but turned to let his gaze sweep over John's face, raising an interrogative eyebrow. "You're drunk," he stated dryly.

"Oi, I'm not _that_ drunk! I'm totally able to recognise a brilliant performance whenever I see one!"

The amused snort he caused with this statement made both burst into another fit of giggles.

"Oh yeah, you're not drunk, I see." Sherlock said smirking. "Did I get anything wrong, though?"

John knitted his lips together in a pleased grimace and nodded slowly. "Oh yeah. 'Harry' is short for Harriet."

"Harry's your sister. Sister! Ah, there's always something..." he shook his head unbelievingly, probably at himself.

John smiled lazily at him and suppressed a yawn. Suddenly he felt endlessly tired and exhausted. He glanced at his watch again and groaned when he realised that another 30 minutes had passed and he still was sitting on this barstool. "I'm really sorry, but I need to get going or I'd have to lie down under the large table over there," he waved his arm to indicate a vague direction.

"Oh." Sherlock's smile faltered a bit. "Yes, certainly. Sorry, I didn't want to keep you."

"No, no. It was quite interesting." John smiled, rising to his feet clumsily. He stood there for a few moments, knees wobbling underneath him. His hand settled on the barstool for support. He searched for his wallet, held up a few banknotes to the bartender and dropped them on the counter when he nodded a thank you.

Sherlock examined John with a frown. "Well we've already established that you don't come here often, and me neither. But I was wondering if you would like to meet again some time?" he asked tentatively.

John paused briefly, "Sorry mate, but I'm not gay"

"No- no, I didn't mean it that way. I meant just to... talk," Sherlock said vaguely and looked down at his drink.

John regarded him for a moment, considering. He then reached out for the napkin he was given before and scratched down his phone number. Slowly he slid the napkin into Sherlock's vision. "Maybe next time you can tell me more about being a consulting detective."

Sherlock looked up in surprise then cracked a smile. "You know, I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job"

"Oh, well then I'm really curious," John said, grinning. "So... Till the next time I guess."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully as the other man went for the door, shrugging into his jacket.

"Maybe next time," Sherlock called behind him, "I can impress you with my knowledge of your military background," his eyes were roaming over John's body, "and perhaps you could tell me the story of the bullet wound in your shoulder."

John had stopped in his pace and looked back at him. Just when he'd thought it couldn't get any more confusing. He exhaled with a little laugh and his lips curled into another smile. "I'm looking forward to it." Then he raised his hand in farewell and trod out of the pub with unstable steps.

* * *

Deeply lost in thought Sherlock was left behind, staring at the empty pint glass next to his. He got the number at last. Luckily. He didn't plan on giving it to Lestrade though. Oddly enough, he really thought about calling the man, this _ex-army doctor_. Or sending a text. But was he really willing to sacrifice such a big opportunity as getting one month of access to cold case files for a second meeting with an almost stranger?

He bit his lip to keep himself from breaking into another smile. He wasn't like this usually. Not this tempted to grin, not even as optimistic. Or maybe he should blame the alcohol for this. Sherlock eyed the drink in front of him suspiciously.

He did a little start when Lestrade appeared at his elbow. His brain did one last consideration and in an instant he came to a decision. He surprised himself by what he said in the end. "I didn't get it." He sighed as if in disappointment. "I know I needed the number to win, but -"

"No. No no, Sherlock, listen to me. I didn't mean _him_, I meant _her!_" he tilted his head to the left, indicating the woman still sitting at the bar, flirting with the bartender.

"Oh." Sherlock stared at her blinked once, twice. Well, this at least explained Lestrade's sudden bi-sexuality. There was always something. But what did he care? He got the number at last, didn't he? The number of someone who might actually like him. If that wasn't worth a try, then what might? The bet had to be called off; after all he'd asked the wrong person for their phone number. And he could get access to those files anyway. Although presumably not legal, but that had never been a problem before.

He clasped his hand around the napkin in his coat pocket and when Lestrade walked away, shaking his head, Sherlock reached for his phone.


	2. Chapter 2

John tried really hard not to fall asleep on the way back home.

He failed.

As soon as the cab pulled up at the kerb, John was awoken by an insisting knock against the separating class. He opened the door into the night, which seemed even colder after being asleep in the warm cabin. John paid the driver and trudged wearily up the stairs to his bedsit.  
His body might be exhausted, but his mind was restless.

Pale eyes, almost feline in the dim light, and a mop of dark curly hair had followed him into his drowsy sleep. And of course the fierce words, telling John about himself and Harry. The man had expected to cause anger and rejection, but John had baffled him and was strangely pleased about it. He suspected very few people ever surprised that detective...

_Sherlock_, John mused, brushing his teeth with more force than was strictly necessary.

Who the hell had a name like that nowadays? Was this man even real? Probably he'd just had John on and would proceed selling his number to companies or sent him spam texts from now on.  
Just involving lonely, depressive looking women and men in conversations to gather phone numbers. And John wasn't even gay! So why had this worked on him?  
Damn.

He spit in the sink angrily and looked up at his mirror self.  
_You Idiot, Watson! You naive, stupid, credulous -  
_

His mobile chimed in his jeans, where he'd spared them on the bathroom floor.  
Uh, Well...

He dug through his pockets to discover, that there were already not one, but two messages waiting for him.  
The first read only 'Afghanistan or Iraq? -SH' which must have arrived while he was still on the way back home. The one just received said 'Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq? -SH' and indicated a fair amount of impatience.

John blinked at the texts for a moment, not a spam text then. He grinned. Oh, he really was horrifically drunk to be this stupidly happy about a text message... Another chime sounded and startled John for a second.  
'Asleep already? -SH'

He snorted and typed an answer back quickly, ignoring the last message.  
'Afghanistan. How did you know I was a soldier?'

'Obvious,' came the answer right away without any explanation, but John wasn't really surprised about that. 'Left shoulder or right? -SH'

'Left' was all he sent back this time and yawned. God, he was desperate to sleep now. How was he supposed to work a shift in the morning? Slowly, he wandered over to his bed, closed the curtain and climbed under the covers. He turned off the light on his night stand just as his phone announced a new text.

'Thought so. -SH'

John grinned at the letters. 'Lucky guess' he typed back and turned on his side.

'I never guess -SH' came the instant reply and John actually huffed a laugh at it.

He fell asleep still thinking about what to sent back.

* * *

The next morning John was already showered, shaved and ready to leave for work when he searched his pockets for his mobile.

He stood a few moments lost in the room, then turned and looked at the bed. Made already, hospital corners and all, it sat there almost taunting him about his military habit.

Cautiously, he walked over and stuck his head under the bed and - there it was.

He stood up, quickly checking for any kind of damage and was relieved when nothing turned up to be wrong. He couldn't afford a new one and it was highly unlikely that his sister would give him a second one.

Oh. There was also a new text waiting for him. The time stamp read four a.m.

'Dinner? -SH'

John stared at the text for a full minute then shook his head slowly, pocketed his phone and left the bedsit before he'd miss the tube.

* * *

The hours crept by to lunch time while John cured sniffles and wrote up prescriptions. He was still thinking about a response to the last message.

Sherlock hadn't sent another text since.

Should he go to dinner? After all he had only met Sherlock once for - what - thirty minutes? What if he didn't like him? Maybe they should meet for another round of drinks instead?

John tapped the phone, pursed his lips. Well on the other hand, what was the worst that could happen? He'd spent a few hours at a restaurant with a stranger, maybe talking amicably, maybe sitting in silence. And after all, it had been interesting.

He reread the last text for a hundredth time and finally typed an answer. 'Chinese?' He had just put the mobile down for a second when the text alert chimed.

'Italian. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Tonight if convenient. - SH'

Tonight. John swallowed. He wouldn't have thought that Sherlock would wanted to meet him again so quickly. His thumbs hovered over the letters. Well, tonight was as good as any. A smile tugged at his lips. 'Be there at seven.' he sent back, but waited vainly for a response.

* * *

And here he was. Six fifty-seven on a Thursday evening, waiting for a stranger.

Would Sherlock even turn up? He hadn't replied to confirm their...appointment? Date?

_Jesus. _

He shook his head and leaned back in his seat. A young woman came over to him. "Hello. Can I get you anything?" She sent him a professional smile, which not quite reached her eyes.

"Um- I'm kind of waiting for someone," John said and she nodded politely, before leaving him alone in his booth once more.

John tapped his fingers against the tablecloth and checked his watch. Five minutes late.

Well, five minutes was nothing. Nowadays it was almost impolite to turn up in time. Or was it? At least that was what Harry always told him when he arrived on time to visit her. He hadn't exactly been around for most of three and a half years after all. Though, Harry wasn't exactly the role model for flawless behaviour either...

.

Some more tapping, some more checking his watch.

Sherlock was now almost twenty minutes late. John hadn't received any texts and the young woman from before was already eyeing him pitifully.

Perfect.

The next time John caught the waitress' gaze he nodded at her and she came over, wearing an apologetic look. As if she could be in any way responsible that he'd been stood up to.

"Running late," John said explanatory, and gave her a fake smile, which she returned politely. "I'll have the lasagna and a glass of red wine, please."

"Righto," she said and left again.

He checked his phone once more and, pitying himself, pushed it into his jeans pocket. _So much to meeting up with a stranger_, John sighed.

On cue, said Stranger chose exactly that moment to stroll in with a dramatic swirl of his coat and wild eyes scanning the crowd. He took off his leather gloves one after another and sat down in the seat opposite John, burying them in his large coat pockets.

"Oh, hello there" John quipped good naturedly.

"Shh," Sherlock hissed at him, reached for the menu and opened it in front of his face.

"Yeah, nice to see you too," John mumbled, tetchy.

"Hush," Sherlock said again and took a quick look around the room before disappearing behind the menu once more.

Wow.  
John must have been more drunk than he'd thought yesterday night apparently.

Time to go. Definitely. "Well," John began with a cough, but was interrupted by the other man.

"How was your day?" Sherlock asked in a conversational tone, loud enough for their neighbourtable to hear if they'd chose to listen.

John paused briefly. What the hell? "Ah, good. How about yours, darling?" he said and reached casually for his wine.

Sure enough, the menu lowered a few inches and John found himself scrutinised by a pair of piercing, pale green eyes.

"Getting better," Sherlock then said in the same tone as before. He put the menu down, placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his voice dropping a bit lower. "I'm being followed"

John's heart rate picked up speed immediately. "By whom?" He asked back in the same volume, his eyes searching the crowd.

"White male, about 6"2, dark hair, unsuspicious clothes. Paul O'Connor, suspected accomplice of Oliver Newman, the murderer we arrested yesterday. You see him?"

John's gaze came to rest on the man in question, casually leaning against the bar, looking the other way. "Yes."

"Right," Sherlock said and searched his pockets. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"What's wrong with yours?"

He shrugged, "Battery dead."

John stared at him for a moment, gazed back to the man at the bar and sighed defeated. Carefully he reached for his mobile and slid it across the table.

Sherlock carded a hand through his hair and nodded what might or might not have been a 'thank you', while he tapped the buttons rapidly.

John eyed him for a moment, then blinked suddenly. "Wait, what are we doing? Are you bait? Am I bait?"

"No, you're fine. I'm just trying to lull O'Connor into believing he's in control of the situation." Sherlock sent him a brief, gleeful smile.

The girl from earlier came back and smiled widely at John while she set a delicious smelling lasagna before him.

"Should I order another one for your partner as well?" She asked innocently.

"He's-" _not my partner_, John continued in his mind but then remembered that he got to be the 'partner in crime' somehow. Though still not 'partner' as in _partner_.

"Just tea for me, thanks." Sherlock chimed in, before John got to blow their cover. Their cover? Huh. Where had that came from?

The waitress nodded smiling and left.

John watched her retreating back, and let his gaze casually land on the man from the bar. "Do we need to leave?" he asked, the plate in front of him forgotten.

"No. Might as well eat, it's possible we have to wait quite a while." Sherlock glanced at John's phone with a frown.

John watched him for a moment then shrugged and reached for his fork.

The waitress came back after they'd spent a few minutes in silence, setting a cup of tea in front of Sherlock. Before she turned to leave, she set a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light between them.  
Chewing another mouthful of lasagna, John stared at the flickering light of the candle for a moment. When he looked up at the man opposite him, he didn't seemed to have notice it at all.

John chose not to make a fuss about it either, instead he said, "You could have told me, you know?"

Sherlock looked up at John with a frown. "Sorry?"

"You could have told me that you weren't available, we could have set another date. For dinner," he clarified.

"Why? You're helping me. I need an assistant." Sherlock mistreated the phone with some more tapping.

"You mean- You're alone on this?" John asked, unbelieving.

"Actually, I'm trying to recruit you." Sherlock said and looked up again, now with a confident smile curving his lips.

John stared at him for a moment longer, "But- I'm useless - I'm nobody!"

"That we'll have to see." Sherlock said and turned his attention back to the phone. "Right now you're doing a marvellous job of being a cover for me."

John made a non-committal noise in his throat. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock sighed, the tea at his elbow still untouched and probably cold. "Lestrade is not answering my texts."

Oh. John knew that name. The silver haired man from last night. Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Call him then." John advised with a frown.

"I prefer to text," Sherlock grumbled

John only hummed in answer. Saying anything, he figured, would have been useless anyway.

Sherlock huffed a sigh in exasperation, steepling his fingers in front of his lips."It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."

"What?"

Sherlock jerked his head up suddenly, "Billy!" he called out to a man standing behind the bar. He reached over to grab John's menu and opened it on the table. The man -Billy- came over to them and bent down over the menu to listen to Sherlock talking lowly to him. John wasn't able to hear what they were saying, only saw Billy nodding a few times and at last stood up straight.

"Tell Angelo, that next time he's looking after his grandson, he should better watch out for unfortunately placed toys." He said at last and Billy grinned at both of them. Sherlock then handed him a fifty pound note, but Billy waved him away.

"Free for you and for your date, Angelo would insist," he informed them cheerfully, before he went, taking the menu and their dishes with him.

John watched him leave with a frown. Date. Again? Huh. Why was everyone making this assumption about them?

"John?" he glanced up with a questioning look. "If you could follow me to the gents?" Sherlock asked, standing up and shrugging into his coat.

"Uhm-" John was staring blankly at him. Sherlock looked expectantly back, looping a scarf around his neck. "Yes?" he said awkwardly after a moment, more a question than an , was he blushing? Sherlock surely hadn't meant it _that_ way. Or had he just now, been politely informing the staff not to enter there for the next twenty minutes?

"Excellent," Sherlock said, then stepped closer and leaned in to whisper in John's ear. "Watch out for O'Conner. If he comes after me, call Lestrade. I put his number in your phone. Otherwise - wait five minutes, then follow me." He straightened again, sent him a lascivious wink and left.

_Jesus_. John had to take a few measured breaths to slow his rapid beating heart.  
Even knowing the wink was staged for others to see, didn't make him feel any less helplessly turned on. By a _man_, a Stranger no less, acquaintanced only the night before in a pub. A _pub_.

Christ.

OK. He needed to clear his head. God - he wished he had his gun with him...

.

O'Connor still hadn't left his place at the bar, and John supposed it was a good sign. Slowly he reached for his phone and looked at the time. Three more minutes. It would be rather helpful to know the plan. If there was one. Somehow John suspected that there wasn't.

The minutes passed and John spent them tapping his fingers on the table and checking his phone. Always keeping an eye on O'Connor. Once in a while, he cast a glance in the direction Sherlock had left.

OK. It was time to move. John stood up, his senses on high alert just thinking about what could happen. Oh, he'd missed this.

Billy looked at him when he walked past and gave him a terse nod. The hairs on John's neck stood on end, when he walked past the office door in the direction of the toilets.

He didn't even pass the kitchen, when suddenly the door opened and Sherlock gripped his arm. "Run, John!" He turned quickly and dragged him behind. The hand seizing his wrist in a bruising grip.

John didn't hesitate and accelerated his tempo until the grip loosened a bit, but still held him safely.

They made their way quickly through the maze of kitchen inventory, food supplies and people. Finally they emerged through the back door into a dark alley way.

They didn't stop though. Round the corner and into the darkness, their feet tapping out a fast rhythm in the distance.

"Come along John!" Sherlock called in front of him, his grip finally loose, he picked up speed.

John hissed, but followed not long after. He wasn't accustomed any longer to run for his life on a daily basis.

They took a left turn and John could hear footsteps following behind them.

"Sherlock!" John called alarmed, and looked over his shoulder quickly.

"Excellent! Just as expected!" He could hear a grin in Sherlock's voice. A _grin_. This man was fucking mad!

Where were they even heading to? Did Sherlock know?

Sherlock climbed a set of stairs hurriedly and John followed him without hesitation. They ran across a flat roof and Sherlock leapt over the edge effortlessly.

"_Jesus_!" John cursed and stopped with a jolt right before the brink. Breathing heavily, he looked at their pursuer, just coming into view, sprinting up the stairs.

John turned quickly with another curse and looked down over the edge.

"John!" Sherlock called for him from beneath, "Hurry up!" He'd jumped onto another roof, maybe a metre away and lower as the one John stood on.

"Fuck's sake," he grumbled to himself, just as the deafening sound of a fired gun rung out.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted with alarm and urgency.

John jumped.

.

Without start up, he hit the ground clumsily, harder than needed surely, but luckily unharmed nonetheless.

Sherlock ran over to him with something akin to worry on his face. "Fine," John waved him away and straightened up. His knees were shaking from the effort of running and his hands were throbbing where he'd caught himself from falling over. He's had worse, he'd been a soldier after all.

Sherlock gave him a curt nod and turned with a glance over his shoulder to make sure John was following him once more.

Both made their way down the fire escape, back onto the street.

They were lucky - O'Connor didn't try to shoot them again, but the sound of his feet was a persistent threat in the darkness behind them.

Left, right, another right. God, he hoped Sherlock knew where he was going. Sherlock rounded another corner and John found himself running into him when he followed. "Sorry," John huffed, catching his breath. Sherlock waved it away before he nudged him to stand to his right, his back against the brickwall. They both inhaled quickly for a few times, to calm their ragged breathing.

Sherlock watched him with a frown, silence settled around them. "I think we should be save now," he said and on cue a shot was fired. John cursed loudly and pressed Sherlock with his arm back against the wall.

"Stupid. I thought this wouldn't be necessary," Sherlock hissed. "John, I'm sorry for the miscalculation."

"Oh- you know, now that it has already happened there is no point now, is there." John scoffed, sounding almost ruefully.

Sherlock swallowed and clenched his jaw. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a gun right in front of John's eyes.

"You have a gun," he said surprised.

"I'm on the hunt for a criminal, of course I have a gun." Sherlock scolded. "Well, I borrowed it anyway," he added a bit lower. Slowly he turned to peek at their suspect.

Again, the sound of a gunshot cut through the expectant silence and John yanked Sherlock back behind the corner. Another shot cracked and the bricks at the edge crumbled.

Sherlock looked back at John, an expression of shocked surprise crossing his face, before it melted away just as quick. He leaned his head back against the wall and cocked the weapon. "It's over, O'Conner! Any moment now, dozens of police men will be flooding this place and you'll be arrested! Not only for your help with different crimes but also for aggravated assault, if not attempted murder!"

The answer came in form of another gunshot.

"Okay, Plan B. What do we do now?" John hissed.

"Well, you should probably call the police now." Sherlock said and risked a glance around the brickbuilding.

John stared at his profile for a moment, incredulous. "Wait, what? You haven't already?"

Sherlock turned to glare at him. "How? My phone is dead. I did sent texts, it's not my fault Lestrade isn't answering!"

John held up his hand in exasperation and shook his head, "You're mad! You're _bloody_ mad!" he dug into his pocket and pressed the buttons for the police with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Emergency, which service do you require?"

.

John informed the Lady on the line that they're being followed by the suspected accomplice of a murderer arrested the day before. He described their approximate position and, of course, didn't leave out that they're shot at. At the last moment, John remembered asking to send word to DI Lestrade. There was a short pause at the other end of the phone, before she assured him to arrive quickly.

"How do you normally alarm the police in an hour of need, if they're not responding to your texts?" John said disgruntled, ending the call.

Sherlock shrugged. "Waiting for someone else to call."

"How would you do that?" John saw a brief smirk, before Sherlock raised the hand holding the gun up into the air, his finger on the trigger.

"For God's sake! The police is already on their way!" John intervened in a hissing tone.

Sherlock lowered the weapon again with a chuckle. "It is rather quick though."

John shook his head at him, unbelieving.

Now it was Sherlock who hold up a hand, silencing the question on John's lips.

There was the faint scraping of footsteps on the wet ground and both men pressed their backs against the wall once more.

Sherlock threw a quick glance at John, a frown shadowing his eyes. He leaned around their shelter to look for their shooter, and more bricks crumbled next to his head where a bullet had hit. John cursed, took hold of Sherlock's coat and pulled him down with him into a crouched position.

"Sherlock, do you actually know how to fire a gun?" John asked in a firm voice. Sherlock huffed, but was interrupted before he could say anything. "I mean - are you capable to hit your target if it is warranted?"

Sherlock looked down at the gun in his hand. "I expect so," he allowed after a moment.

John sighed. "Give me that. And stay here." He pinned Sherlock against the wall with his left hand and leaned over him. John knew, O'Connor's gun was still loaded and, on cue, the man fired again.

John swore, he needed a better position.

This wasn't his gun after all.

He coaxed Sherlock into stretching out his bent knees, which left him sitting on the floor like an abandoned doll. Carefully, John slipped his right thigh between Sherlock's and tilted his head to the side until he could peer at the dark alley.

The gun was a bit heavier than the one in his desk drawer at home, unfamiliar to the touch, but nonetheless a reassuring weight in his hand.

Though, the alley was too dark to make out any movement, so John closed his eyes, concentrating on his hearing. He inhaled deeply through his nose and released the air through his mouth, repeating the process to calm himself further.

He could hear the squelching sound of the ground beneath O'Conner's feet, where he wasn't able to keep still. And Sherlock's breathing, growing more and more impatient. "What are you waiting for?" Sherlock hissed at him, "Shoot!"

"Shh!" John hissed back, just as O'Connor - once more - shot and missed his target. John grinned, aimed vaguely at the sound of retreating footsteps, lowered the gun an inch, and shot.

There was the telltale sound of screeching metal, indicating that John had hit a dustbin. The curse following was an affirmation to how close it had been nonetheless. Sherlock huffed a breath of laughter and John sent him an evil stare, before he went back peeking around the corner. Another bullet flew past his ear and this time it was Sherlock who pulled him into safety.

Damn, this had been close. He never would have thought anyone would aim a gun at him again. Not so soon anyway.

What kind of gun did O'Connor carry with him? A normal revolver? A semi-automatic? How often had he shot at them already? John had lost track.

The sound of metallic clicking reached his ear - so the man actually was reloading the gun. John didn't hesitate this time.

He leaned further into the alley than he'd dared before, aimed at the dustbin and slowly amended his target a bit more to the left. He took a deep breath and shot.

O'Connor gave an outcry of pain and Sherlock squirmed underneath John in delightment. John stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. He hadn't hit the man life threatening, probably arm or leg, John observed by the wailing sound of his victim. "Sherlock Holmes," O'Connor called angrily. "Time will come when you get what you deserve! And you won't be able to do anything about it!"

"Oh, are you threatening me?" Sherlock asked boisterously and tried to stand up, shoving against John's chest to free himself.

John had nothing at it. "No," he determined and pushed him down again. While he, unceremoniously, lowered his weight onto Sherlock's thigh between his.

"But he's-" Sherlock almost whined.

John fixed him with a glare, "Still dangerous. I didn't hear his gun hitting the ground. Did you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything in return, instead he tried to stare John down from beneath. "You're heavy," he grumbled in the end, but the glinting in his eyes belied his sulking tone.

John huffed amused, "And you're an idiot."

They grinned at each other and from one moment to the next, the mood shifted. Where had been pure joy before was now an expectant silence hovering between them. Sherlock had felt it too, John could see it in his eyes, his brows furrowed slightly.

John swallowed. Was he still sitting on Sherlock's thigh? He should move probably. Yes, definitely.

Slowly, carefully, he stood up and reached a hand out to help Sherlock to his feet.

Turned on by a man - _twice! _- in only one night. _Jesus_, Watson...

"So, when is your DI due to appear?" John inquired to bridge the awkward silence.

Sherlock brushed some dirt off his coat and straightened again. He shrugged and glanced at his watch. "Should be any moment now."

Right on cue sirens could be heard not far in the distance, as was O'Connor swearing loudly. The thrumming footsteps following could only be a desperate attempt for a getaway.

"Sherlock!" John called alarmed and turned quickly to chase the fugitive. He was stopped though, with a vice like grip around his wrist. "What -? Don't you want to arrest him?" John asked, baffled.

"I don't do the arresting, I just farm that out to Lestrade."

"But - Don't you want to make sure he's -?"

"Why bother?" Sherlock interrupted him. "I told Lestrade everything in my texts. I assume after you called, he'd at least has had a look at his phone."

John stared at him incredulous, the awe he'd felt before completely erased from his mind. "Are you fucking serious?!" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, sending him an evil stare and indignant head tilt.

"What is wrong with y-" John's mobile chimed with a new text, and threw him completely off course.

"Ah, excellent. That'll be Lestrade." Without warning Sherlock reached into John's coat pocket and retrieved his phone. "See?"

Sherlock showed him the screen. He was right. Of course he bloody was.

_'Caught O'Connor two streets down from your indicated position.  
The medics have a look at him, apparently his thigh was grazed by a bullet.  
Know anything about that?' _

John pursed his lips and reread the message once more, just as a few other texts came in.

_'He was unarmed though.'  
'Where the hell are you?'  
'Sherlock? Whose phone is this?' _

John couldn't help it, he huffed a laugh and looked up at Sherlock. He could see the surprise in those pale green eyes when he finally said, "I grazed his thigh."

Sherlock blinked a few times and what ever Sherlock had been expecting it surely hadn't been this. He grinned back widely. "Well, he isn't a very nice man."

"Yeah, he isn't, is he? Frankly a bloody awful shooter."

Sherlock laughed, a deep, throaty rumble. "And you said, you're useless."

"Well, apparently I'm still capable to shoot someone." John quipped.

Sherlock hummed approvingly. "There are worse talents."

"True that." John said and both started to giggle madly. After a while the awkward silence from before settled around them once more. John fought for something to say, but couldn't come up with anything. Instead he tried looking anywhere else than those gleeful, green eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Even when they don't need you to arrest him, the DI is probably worried about you." Sherlock snorted indignantly and John smiled. "You should go."

Sherlock kept quiet for a moment. "You could come with me."

John pursed his lips, considering, then shook his head slowly. "I think, I've to decline.

"Oh." Sherlock said, sounding disappointed. "Why?"

"People might talk," John shrugged and Sherlock huffed.

"People do little else."

Biting his lip to keep himself from smiling, John reconsidered and grinned in the end. "Yeah, why not?"

They turned simultaneously and started to walk, when John stopped mid stride. "Wait, what with the gun?" He asked, completely forgotten about it.

"Leave it," Sherlock said. "Someone of my homeless network will pick it up and return to their owner."

John paused briefly. "Homeless network?"

"Really indispensable. My eyes and ears, all over the city. Faster than the police. Far more relaxed about taking bribes."

"Right." John said slowly and placed the gun behind another dustbin on their way.

.

They walked back from where they'd come from and eventually followed the flashing blue-red light of the police cars.

"You hesitated." Sherlock said after a few minutes of silence. John hummed, enquiring. "On the roof. When I jumped onto the other, you hesitated."

John snorted. "Of course. We call this 'survival instinct'."

"Maybe." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But this wasn't the reason you stopped, was it? You suffered from PTSD when you came back from Afghanistan," he observed and looked over at John.

"How-?" He started, then got the better of himself and shook his head. "Yeah, wasn't very nice. Imagine that," John said with a bitter laugh.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "What happened? How did you get rid of it?"

"Really?" John said with a snarl, turning to him. "Are we really going to do this now?

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah." John confirmed.

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to." Sherlock murmured, dodging John's gaze.

John sighed and resumed walking. He heard Sherlock following behind him, tentatively.

_Perfect Watson, sensitive as always._ God, he just found it difficult to talk about this kind of stuff. "That's a story for another time," he allowed, when the first police car came into sight. Next to it stood a woman, seemingly waiting for them.

A shy smile curved Sherlock's lips. "I'm looking forward to it."

John grinned back at him, when he recognized his spoken words from the night before.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm afraid that's all there is for the moment, but I'm planning to write a third chapter to this! Stay tuned, if you want to know how it continues ;)


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